


Bad Sweaters

by Averander



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Sweater AU, COMEDY!?!, Dorian is a diva, F/M, IE modern AU with bad sweaters, Mystery, Romance, Suspence, may never be finished idk, shitty sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averander/pseuds/Averander
Summary: Many things have been said about Solas. None of them have been that he has a good fashion sense. Though sentimental connection to sweaters isn't a crime, alas Dorian feels it's his duty to save Solas from his sweaters.
It's a crying shame that Dorian just can't save Solas from himself. 
SolasLavellan. (May get continues if there is enough interest)





	

Solas never got very far with Dorian. Always just tea (for Dorian) and a cake (for Solas) , he said, maybe just a little looks around, he said. But it never was just that. Tea and cake turned into a three course meal with wine and perhaps a little tea (actually vodka) and cake (actually cake). A little look around turned into a shopping spree that would make most primadonnas feel spendthrift, and perhaps a little shy about their wardrobes size. Though Solas had become accustom to, dare he say, accommodating the man’s strange whims and flights of fancy, this time he was beginning to chafe. 

“But my dear, we’ve had so much me time I haven’t even begun thinking about you.” The words cloyed on the mage’s tongue like syrup and made the elf shudder in pure disgust. Tanned fingers tugged at the sweater that sagged over his frame, moth eaten perhaps but not unloved. Dorian could only look at it with an expression that could be at best described as disfavour and at worst described as revulsion. He wasn’t sure if halla were meant to look sickeningly cute and cuddly, nor if they were meant to be surrounded by putridly acid shades of green, but he was pretty damn sure they weren’t meant to be on a sweater nor on the particularly sombre man in front of him. “I mean really.” He could almost feel himself gritting his teeth. “You just need a change in your life, after all that trouble you’ve been through with your friends, what better way to distract yourself!” 

“Dorian, shopping is how you distract yourself.” Solas couldn’t help the smile that was threatening to spread across his lips. He knew what the damned man was doing, he hated it, especially the expressions that were flitting across his face as he looked at the sweater. “And I’ll have you know this sweater is a gift from a dear friend of mine. If you’re suggesting-”

“No, nothing of the sort. Just suggesting that change is the start of great things, like possibly not looking like an elven hobo for instance.” Solas snorted and Dorian laughed, “You know it’s true, just the other day that old woman insisted you take her gold ‘For the sake of the poor’.” The elf rubbed a hand across scalp with a sigh. 

“I suppose it is rather bad…” The grin on the Tevinter’s face was sheepish as he patted the poor man’s back. 

“Well at the very least it’s a problem that can be fixed, eh?”

~  
“2 skeins of cashmere for 14 gold? Ridiculous! I can’t believe you can even stock it let alone try to gouge me for it!” The woman’s lacquered nails were nearly ripping the fragile fibres she was complaining about, but Lavellan kept smiling, just a simple customer mistake with prices. That’s all.

“Those are hand spun m’am, the fact you’re getting them for 7 each is a real bargain for sure. No cheaper in Tarasyl’an Tel’as.” There was a fire in those green eyes now, oh boy, this wasn’t just a customer mistake, this was racial prejudice. Shit. 

“It’s called ‘Skyhold’, not whatever heathen words you’re spouting.” Yup, puffed chest, narrowed eyes, nails shredding the wool she wanted to purchased with righteous fervour. Now was not the time to tell her that the elves were here first and that those heathen words were practically the same as the stupid human bullshit she was saying. But in any case. 

“Of course m’am, Skyhold, m’am, what was I thinking. But in any case, you’re paying for Val Royeux, hand spun cashmere, and at the bargain price of 14 gold.” That made her expression completely change. 

“Did you say Val Royeux?” Hands unclenched, the skeins were barely intact, you could possibly knit with them if you were skilled, perhaps she was, if not very elf friendly. 

“Yes m’am. It’s been said that Justinia herself knits with this very brand. As you can see, it has her seal on it, the fact that we get it so cheap is a blessing from the Divine herself.” And hold the sugar syrup smile. It was actually a seal that meant it was spun by hand by chantry ladies, but hell, this lady wouldn’t know, it was the Divine’s seal. You found people hawking bread ‘eaten by the Divine’ with this seal on it when it meant the grain had been grown in Chantry owned fields. 

“Can I get it in red with the white?” Lips pursed, probably thinking of making herself a chantry themed sweater or scarf or who knows what. 

“Yes M’am, even have Divine Gold along with the Sister Red, there’s also a book on how to knit Chantry Styles on sale at the moment written by Brother Genitivi. He gives easy to follow step by step guides for Chantry symbols and patterns for sweaters, scarves and more.” She gives Lavellan a queer curious look when she mentions the book, and she knew she had her, now to go for the kill, “It’s just 20 gold for you, m’am. He usually is writing big history books, not knitting like you or me, some people say most of his stuff goes for hundreds. But what would I know about that? Seems strange and all when he writes big books…who’s even going to read them? His knitting stuff is really hard to come by apparently, but well, it’s such a small little thing I can’t imagine it would be all that much, and besides, not many people want to buy it. It’s been here ever so long too, needs a good home, so I thought, nice lady like you wanting those chantry colours, 20 gold only seems fair and all.” 

“Well of course, it’s only fair.” She coos, a soft predatory gleam in her little green eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching as she held her gently sympathetic pout. “I’ll take it, it sounds wonderful, dear.”

“Oh it is, I’m sure.” Smile as if you’re doing her a favour, pull it off the back shelf and set it down, it is a good book. Genitivi’s knitting was his only real public work, with his histories being more resigned to scholars and university students though some very educated people bought them if they wanted a hefty read. It wasn’t a lie when she said they cost hundreds. This was more like ten, it was not hard to come by, not by a long shot. Not that many people were interested in the finer nuances of knitting themselves a chantry sweater or an accurate depiction of the history of Andraste in the form of a table runner. The customer returned with 2 skeins each of the gold and the red, and that was just icing on the cake.

“Well then, that will be 48 gold altogether, m’am.” The woman’s lips pursed a little at the price but she nodded her head, pulling out her wallet from her bag, most likely a real De Fer. 

“Do you have pay wave?” 

“Yes we do, m’am, just had it installed!” Her fingers tapped at the little machine and the woman raised her card like some kind of wand before waving it across the machine with a flourish that would probably make many wannabe mages proud. Thankfully it registered and there was no need to mention anything about her style of paying as you were packing her goods into a paper bag with words ‘Anor Hasathe’ printed in winding script above a ball of wool, the common translation ‘Place of Wool’ in its crudity stamped beneath. If only to please the human customers, and some elven who didn’t speak the language. “There you are, have a wonderful day, m’am. Do come again!” She smiled back as she took her goods with perhaps a little sharper a tug then necessary and made her way out. 

“Seething, resentment, a bitter little ball drifting round and round inside like an angered bee, waiting… waiting…” A hand settled on Lavellan’s shoulder. A soft smile crossed her face as she looked just a little down at him. “You shouldn’t let them eat at you, biting, gnawing, they are just people, they float away and don’t matter. You are better than them. Bright like the sun.” 

“You’re so sweet da’oin.” His nose twitches and you plant a soft kiss on it. “My little boy, don’t trouble yourself, she was a mean old shem, but I made her pay a little more for her troubles. It’s only fair.”

“It’s not right…”

“It’s just how things balance. Now get be a dear da’oin and get me another copy of Chantry Styles from the back.” He was gone for but a second and back with the book in a blink, he didn’t express joy when you patted his head, but you knew he appreciated your happiness. “That’s my boy. Why don’t you go outside and play with Eireth’inan?” 

“Yes, he’d like that. He enjoys when I stroke his ears the most. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Alright, take care ishalen.” He looked back over his shoulder as he stood by the door, the beanie you’d knitted him in white and blue, his current favourite colour pulled tightly down over his head, white hair sticking out like so much straw from underneath. His grey eyes gazed back through tufts of wispy hair. 

“Don’t worry, I will, mamae.”

~  
It had been a long trial, filled with loathing, death and despair. But it was finally at an end. Dorian, his hands full of bags of clothes for his friend, and himself of course, walked with the stride of a man who had been victorious on the battlefield once again. He had worked hard to claim the bounties of the shopping centre, so now he would enjoy the fruits of his labours. Solas dragged behind him, he had lost all sense of hope in this world, the things he had seen, the things he had done, the things that had been forced upon him… a shudder of revulsion ran down his spine. But it was all in the name of friendship, plus Dorian had in the whirlwind of destruction promised him a rather rare delicacy from an Orlesian Pastry shop that he lived near so, perhaps it was also for his stomach. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw it, like a great oasis in the desert, a sweater on a simple wooden mannequin in shop window. The sweater was shades of gentle grass green, knitted in such a way that they blended around the subject, a herd of halla being chased by a single white wolf. It wasn’t tacky, and the knitting was fine, so fine that it almost looked like it was woven by machine, but he could see a few little imperfections in the knit that marked it well for what it was. 

“Solas? What are you- Oh Andraste’s ass, don’t you dare-”

He didn’t listen to Dorian as he looked at the sign over the shop, ‘Anor Hasathe’. Finally, a place he could really enjoy. 

His eyes met those of the shop keep’s, a rather intense storm blue. Dark red Vallaslin covered her face in harsh lines that spoke to him of Dirthamen, someone he hadn’t thought of in a long time. Her lips curled into a smile and her cheeks dimpled. 

“Hello there sir! Welcome to Anor Hasathe, best wool specialists in Tarasyl’an Tel’as. Can I help you with anything?” 

“I was wondering about that sweater in the window, the green one, with the Halla. I’d like to buy it.” She gives him a look, not quite judgemental but with perhaps something reserved for a particular kind of gentleman.

“Oh yes hahren, that sweater is surely suited to you.” He couldn’t help but wince. Surely he didn’t look that old? “On your frame though… I’m not sure, I knitted it to a… less broad frame…” Her eyes roamed over his shoulders as her nose wrinkled in a way he didn’t appreciate. Was she implying he was…fat? “Might be a bit tight. You’ll have to try it on. Not sure about those shoulders… chest is a bit broad. Have to measure you if it doesn’t fit, can always make another.” She seems to not be paying attention to him as she walks around him, her eye appraising his figure with a very critical look. “Rather big for an elf, aren’t you? Nearly a head too high and shoulders far to big… far too big… no no, don’t think that sweater’s big enough.” She mutters what she thinks is under her breath, but he catches all of it. A light blush dusting his cheeks as his lips tighten into a thin line. “And what’s with these thighs? Could fit both my arms in those pants and still wouldn’t tighten them like those thighs do…not wiry at all.” He put a hand to his temple as the blush deepened as she went to get the sweater from the window, wondering vaguely if this woman was like this with all her customers of if he was just lucky. He glanced up and saw Dorian hovering in the doorway completely oblivious to his suffering, a confused smile on his face. Most likely confusing the situation entirely, like he usually did. 

“Enjoying yourself Solas?” A Cheshire cat smile spread across the human’s face. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, my friend.” He attempted to smile back but the effort was quickly quashed by a sweater being pushed into his arms. 

“Here you are, now go ahead and try it on for size.” She smiled, her grin seemed almost as feral as the ‘vint’s. 

“Do you have a changing room…or…?”

“No.” She shook her head, “Usually I don’t have to check what size people are for the goods, I just know or not, but this is a special case, this here is an elven sweater, you’re an elf but I really don’t know if it’ll fit or not. Your body isn’t quite human, not quite elf so… you know.” That smile was now pure carnivore. Like she could swallow him whole in one bite.

“Well…” He looked down at the sweater in his arms, it sings to him in ways he can’t put into words. But he can feel the eyes of two predators weighing heavily on his very soul nearby. One who will never let him live it down that he would do anything for a sweater and the other, well, the other he didn’t even know. He felt she was just a pure destructive force bent on her own whims and reminded him far too much of another, very dear person close to him. Who was also terrifying, abominable and perhaps the kind of person who would swallow you whole if it suited them. 

“Well indeed.” He gave a withering glance to Dorian, who merely laughed as Solas swallowed thickly. 

And so began the process of taking off his shirt.


End file.
